“Don’t do that wonderin’ out loud, Jake,” the other warned quietly. “If you do, you’ll sure enough find out.” The little man laughed scornfully, met in turn defiantly the eyes of Betty, Merrick, and Forbes, turned on his heel, and sauntered out. CHAPTER XXVIII BETTY HAS HER OWN WAY Don Black had not himself built the cabin where he lived. While he was still a boy jingling his first spurs, two young Englishmen had hewn its logs out of the untouched forest on the western slope of Pegleg Pass. They were remittance men, exiled from their country for the peace of mind of their families. In the casual fashion of their class they had drifted to the Rockies to hunt for big game and, less industriously, for elusive fortune. Long since they had returned to the estates which Britishers of this type seem always to be inheriting from convenient relatives. By the simple process of moving in, Black had become owner of the cabin. He hung his pinched-in cowboy hat on a peg in the wall and thereby took possession. His title was perfectly good in the eyes of the range riders who dropped in occasionally and made themselves at home. Whether Don was or was not on the place, they were welcome to what they found. The only obligation on them was to cut a fresh supply of firewood in place of that they used. One room was enough for Black’s needs. The other served as a place in which to store old saddles, mountain-lion pelts, worn-out boots, blankets, unused furniture, and a hundred odds and ends. With the help of the owner, Lon Forbes set to work housecleaning. Useless litter went flying out of doors. A vigorous broom in the hands of Lon raised clouds of dust. In the fireplace old papers and boxes blazed cheerfully. A Navajo rug, resurrected from the bottom of a hingeless trunk, covered the floor in front of a walnut bed imported by one of the Englishmen from Denver. It took hours to make the transformation, but the foreman was quite pleased with himself when he ushered Betty into the bedroom he had prepared for her. She clapped her hands softly. “My, Lon! What a fine wife some Suffragette’s lost in you. Maybe it isn’t too late yet. You can keep house while she--” “Help! Help!” expostulated Forbes. “Oh, if you’ve got your eye on one of these little flapper girls, of course, there’s no use my saying a word,” she teased. “I know how stubborn you are when you get ‘sot.’” She was in a mood of happy reaction from the fears that had oppressed her all day. Dr. Rayburn had told her--with some reservations, to be sure--that, barring unexpected complications, Hollister ought to get well. It would take time and nursing and good food, but all of these the patient would get. “You’re right I’ve got my eye on one of them li’l’ flapper girls--this very minute,” he rapped back promptly. “An’ she’s a sure-enough warnin’ to a fellow to play his hand out alone unless he wants to be bossed somethin’ scandalous.”